There is an urge to press him, to see how he likes having fingers jabbed into the wound. Was it worth it? Is he happy now? Satisfied? Better for having heard it? She waits out the impulse, watching his profile, and then turns her own face back to the horizon.
Darras does not look away from the sea. He keeps his eyes fixed on it, on that endless line of the horizon, the boundless possibility of that escape. The wind sifts over the water, and the waves crash at the shore, and the sun keeps setting so that it will rise tomorrow.
"Why won't we," he says, eventually. Tightly. Without looking at her. "Why won't we go back for that."
Because it doesn't serve the mission. Because revenge is pointless, a waste of resources, risk without reward. Because it's been a strict policy all her life not to allow these things to touch her. If she gave that up now, how could she keep from feeling it all? The possibility looms just at the edge of her vision like a rogue wave rising to swamp their small boat.
She clenches hands together until she can feel every bone in them and finds the only thing she can say that will ring true to them both. "It wouldn't help me sleep."
Edited (haha i'm the worst more pointless blather tweaking) 2021-11-16 03:08 (UTC)
Still staring across the water, Darras nods. One nod, small, tight. His anger has tightened his chest, close his throat, winched his jaw so firmly that he can barely speak. He is thinking of a dark room, and Yseult, and someone who he could make hurt as badly as she hurt, flesh for flesh, hour for hour.
Time. Work. Answers he'll hate. She breathes in deep and exhales slow and quiet, then shrugs.
"Life going on as normal. Reading in the evening. Reports over breakfast. Rosana sleeping on my feet." The sweep of her hand takes in the boat, the shore behind them, the line in his hand. "This, until now. Each day it recedes a little further. You need to let it."
He reaches out to take her hand in his, the one that she's gesturing with. His fingers close around hers, tightly, tighter than his grip on the line. The wind sifts the other direction, ruffling the waves, pulling at strands of Yseult's hair, billowing the fishing line.
She nods. She stays that way for the trip back to the shore: face turned into the wind, eyes closed, her hand in his.
It takes that bit of distance to start to ease some of the tension this conversation has prompted, enough that by the time they are dragging the little boat up onto the beach she bumps her shoulder into his and jokes, a little tentatively, "You still owe me dinner."
For Yseult, and only Yseult--because she is warm and alive and real against him, because he loves her--Darras gives her the smallest smile. He leans his shoulder back against hers.
She can see the effort it takes, and she considers the merits of dragging him to a busy table, forcing a distraction on him versus returning to their suite in the Gallows and letting him brood.
"There's the tavern over the hill with the clams. Or the little Antivan shop you like near the ferry. Or we can just pick something up from the kitchens when we get back."
Once the boat is secured, she slips her hand back into his. There are very few concessions she's inclined to make to his feelings on all of this, but there can be one. "You choose."
"Place near the ferry. I could use a bit of Antiva. The kitchens won't have that."
Their path requires them to climb stairs slippery with seawater and muck. The higher they climb, the clearer the steps become, though they never become truly clean. That's Kirkwall for you, a persistent muckiness that doesn't bother Darras. The lanterns are being lit along the way as darkness settles around the city like a worn cloak.
"I meant it," Darras says, eventually. "About going home. Not to the Gallows."
"You know I can't right now." She doesn't fully disguise the frustration this inspires. "Our networks in the Marches are lacking, and--" she bites herself back from listing off everything that needs doing. The specifics hardly matter. "You've seen how much work there is."
"Doesn't stop me from wanting it. Or you from wanting it."
Darras tips a look up at the sky, purpling like a bruise under the cover of the evening. The sound around them, the smell, the air, even--it's all Kirkwall. Nothing of their cottage. He's thinking of it all the same, as clearly as if the steps were, impossibly, leading up the side of the cliff, taking them home.
"If the Marches weren't lacking in their networks, and if your desk weren't full of correspondence, and if the war weren't nipping at everyone's heels. We'd be there."
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"Why won't we," he says, eventually. Tightly. Without looking at her. "Why won't we go back for that."
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She clenches hands together until she can feel every bone in them and finds the only thing she can say that will ring true to them both. "It wouldn't help me sleep."
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"And what would?" he says, eventually.
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"Life going on as normal. Reading in the evening. Reports over breakfast. Rosana sleeping on my feet." The sweep of her hand takes in the boat, the shore behind them, the line in his hand. "This, until now. Each day it recedes a little further. You need to let it."
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"Let's go home."
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It takes that bit of distance to start to ease some of the tension this conversation has prompted, enough that by the time they are dragging the little boat up onto the beach she bumps her shoulder into his and jokes, a little tentatively, "You still owe me dinner."
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"Do I. And what d'you fancy?"
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"There's the tavern over the hill with the clams. Or the little Antivan shop you like near the ferry. Or we can just pick something up from the kitchens when we get back."
Once the boat is secured, she slips her hand back into his. There are very few concessions she's inclined to make to his feelings on all of this, but there can be one. "You choose."
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"Place near the ferry. I could use a bit of Antiva. The kitchens won't have that."
Their path requires them to climb stairs slippery with seawater and muck. The higher they climb, the clearer the steps become, though they never become truly clean. That's Kirkwall for you, a persistent muckiness that doesn't bother Darras. The lanterns are being lit along the way as darkness settles around the city like a worn cloak.
"I meant it," Darras says, eventually. "About going home. Not to the Gallows."
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Darras tips a look up at the sky, purpling like a bruise under the cover of the evening. The sound around them, the smell, the air, even--it's all Kirkwall. Nothing of their cottage. He's thinking of it all the same, as clearly as if the steps were, impossibly, leading up the side of the cliff, taking them home.
"If the Marches weren't lacking in their networks, and if your desk weren't full of correspondence, and if the war weren't nipping at everyone's heels. We'd be there."
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She plods up a half-dozen or so more steps before she adds, "I wish we could be." It sounds like wishing for the moon.